Dating a DommeMature

Following the history and life and love of a professional Dominatrix.

“You really don't want to know what I do for a job,” I told my date and then chomped a piece of beautiful rare steak off of my fork. He sat across from me at the table in the local steakhouse, admiring my ability to eat a bloody chunk of meat without flinching. The atmosphere in the restaurant was typical with young, svelte waitresses wandering around, dark lighting, the smell of A1 Steak Sauce floating around and mingling with the smell of draft beer. He looked at me with big, baby blues and laughed at me. I knew him only a few weeks but had been out together only once before because we both had very busy schedules, keeping in touch only through daily emails. I knew his profession as we had just finished the discussion on his years of education, mountains of diplomas and certifications. 

“Come on now, it can't be all that bad. Are you worried that I may think it's unimportant?” he asked, to which I quickly quipped, “No.” He asked for an explanation or a hint and so, I gave him one. 

“I help people. I'm a counsellor, of sorts,” I proceeded to explain, “I also give demonstrations on particular lifestyle choices and their safety.” 

I thought that was enough of an explanation, it usually is. Most of the men I see on a personal basis I rarely see more than once and me explaining my profession as a counseling service usually keeps them at bay. They assume I'm a life coach from that answer or I flat out tell them that it's none of their business or maybe that I prefer not to talk about work or that it's confidential which, in all honesty, it is. 

“What kind of counseling do you do? Family?” he asked. Looking at me intensely and giving me the feeling that he knew there was a lot more to the story. He really was interested in me, wanted to know me and this sort of took me by surprise. I tend to come across as distant, guarded and uninterested but this guy was seeing right through my carefully compiled facade. I have to admit that I liked that he made me uneasy, he made me twitch a little in my seat just by asking simple questions. All of this in my mind, coupled with the fact that he had been very open and honest with me, came across as a very open-minded person and was unusually easy to talk to, I decided to just lay it all out on the line. So, I finished chewing, put my fork down and folded my hands neatly on the table. I squirmed my way into a proper sitting position, collecting my posture and composing myself. Then I began that one sentence that usually makes people, men and women alike, turn from me like I'm walking around with Ebola.

“Honestly, I'm actually a Professional Dominatrix.” 


He just looked across the table at me for a moment and, although I'm normally able to get a good read on people and what they may be thinking, I could not tell what he thought as he sat there just staring at me. I wanted to start explaining myself and start rambling on and on about my whole history, how I got into and why, etc. but there was no way I could. I could pride myself on my composure no matter what the situation but, for some unknown reason, I just wanted to explain to him why I did what I did. 

“I don't know if this is going to offend you,” he finally began, glancing down at his plate and pushing a carrot around with his fork, “but are you serious? And if you are serious, I'm sorry, but I thought that a Dominatrix was just something people wrote about in Penthouse Forums.” 

“I'm serious. Very serious actually,” was the only way I could respond.  

More silence except for the chatter of the other couples, friends and families that were around us in the restaurant. It suddenly became a strange and unique atmosphere that encompassed us, like we were in the centre of an immediate and very loud universe that had stolen our concentration on one another. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he finally piped up after a long, drawn-out and awkward silence. 

“Of course you can,” I answered, “I really have nothing to hide.” 

“Why did you tell me?” 

I can honestly say that it wasn't the question I was expecting considering I usually get asked if I have sex for money. (The answer is no.) I was taken aback, contemplating my answer and trying to figure out exactly how I tell this man that I just blurted it out but only after careful consideration. It didn't make sense, I didn't make any sense and I was starting to find myself intrigued that he was able to put me on such an edge.

“I'm not quite sure,” I responded and smiled, “Wasn't something I was exactly planning on doing but you seem like an honest and open-minded person.” 

He smiled. It was sincere and disarming. “Thank you.” 

The conversation of our chosen careers died with that that and we went on laughing and talking about other things, finishing our supper and drinks. We left the restaurant, walking to our respective cars and preparing to part ways when he stopped walking and took my hand. I stopped, turned and looked up at him, waiting for him to say something. 

“We must meet for a coffee tomorrow afternoon. You have me quite smitten with you and I really want to know you better. I'm going to say coffee in the afternoon because I don't want you to think that your 'job' has anything to do with me asking you out again, I have no ulterior motives here and I'm rambling like a fool so, coffee tomorrow?” 

All I could do was squeeze the hand that was holding mine, gentle yet firm and smile at the knowledge that I had thrown him for a loop as much, if not more so, than he had thrown me.  

“Of course I will. Where and when? I have no appointments tomorrow.” His eyebrows raised at the word appointments and I gave him a knowing crooked smile. 

“Charlston's Cafe at two?” he questioned, leaning himself back as if he was afraid to ask.

“I'll be there,” I answered and pulled my hand away. I smiled at him and spun on my heel, walking to my car and leaving him standing in the parking lot. I didn't want anymore conversation, didn't want any more time with him that night which was making my business habits become personal ones for me - I was quick to leave, quick to take control and quick to finish any personal interaction when I deemed it was time.

I know he watched me walk to the car and only went to his when he heard me rev the engine of my little Mazda. I pulled out of the parking lot, turning on my radio and catching the weather for tomorrow. It was starting to get cold and I was trying to decide to put my RX-8 away for the winter but my brain somehow went directly to Charlston's and what the hell was I going to wear?

The End

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